What Immortal Hand?
by CoraxOnyx
Summary: G1 Sparkplug and Optimus Prime. A chance meeting in a dark place. Inspired by http://masterofall./art/Something-of-an-implication-132762947 Please look at the drawing, which is awesome. Constructive criticism always welcome.


What Immortal Hand?

William "Sparkplug" Witwicky was, in no particular order; forty-five years old, unemployed, a single father, and lost in the bowels of an alien spaceship. As he walked past panel after identical panel of orangey-gold alien metal in the massive corridor he wondered if he should be more concerned about his situation. The day had been utterly surreal so far. He knew he had experienced the unexpected attack on the oil rig by the giant alien robots, remembered his abrupt dive into the cold ocean waters to save his son and recalled their subsequent rescue by the _other_ giant alien robots, but he felt strangely disconnected from it all. He stopped and touched the hard, gritty surface of the wall. Definitely real. And huge. And alien. He sighed and continued on his way.

He knew he was in over his head. Maybe he should have chosen to stay with the other roughnecks on the remains of the ruined drilling platform until the Coast Guard arrived to rescue them, but Sparkplug had somehow persuaded Optimus Prime, the chief good giant alien robot, to bring him along as an "Earth expert". So when the Autobots had bugged out, he and his boy, Spike, had been carried along and finally deposited in the enormous Command Room of their half-buried hulk of a spaceship base. After a few confused moments the robots all wandered off to do whatever robots do and Sparkplug and Spike had split up to search for someplace they could rest without getting stepped on.

Sparkplug had pursued a hallway that looked promising and passed several open but occupied rooms. If the Autobots he passed noticed him, they hadn't objected to, or even acknowledged his presence. After a while longer he entered what appeared to be a disused section. The doors here were closed and did not open as he approached as they had been doing for native robots. That made sense, as he wasn't huge and made of metal, but maybe he'd find a storage space or something that had a regular handle. So he turned a few corners, looking for a place he could use.

And now he was lost, literally and figuratively. The lights in the corridor ceiling were becoming more intermittent and the floor was subtly buckled in the middle. The walls here were thickly coated with mineral encrustations and he caught a distinct whiff of hot sulfur. He was definitely in one of the damaged sections of the ship and sooner or later he was going to have to turn back. He hoped he'd be able to retrace his steps to the Command Room again, but he honestly wasn't sure. Maybe Spike would miss him eventually and send the robots looking for him. That'd be embarrassing. He wasn't sure if they'd be angry at him for trespassing. But, they hadn't said he _couldn't_ explore the ship and Sparkplug was used to doing things for himself. So he kept on going. Moving forward had always worked for him before.

As he rounded a bend in the curving hallway a bluish glow in the gloom ahead caused the man to slow. He spotted a pair of small but bright blue lights up near the ceiling. The lights were set at a downward angle so that they faintly illuminated and struck cerulean highlights from a gleaming jumble of blocky metallic shapes in the corridor. In front of the shapes, and outlined in the cool light from above were a pair of dark blue square and jointed objects, each about the size of a motorcycle. The blue metal structures were suspended in the air above Sparkplug's head as he stepped forward to examine them. It was so dark here, other than the small blue lights above the only illumination was a dim wash of light from behind him. He squinted at the assemblage of objects above his head and beyond. Was it art? A sculpture of some kind, forgotten in this time-lost corridor? Sparkplug looked up at the blue lights again and like an optical illusion the random shapes snapped into sense. Optimus Prime was sitting motionless in the shadowy corridor and looking down at his hands.

Sparkplug jumped back. The Autobot leader raised his head to regard the human directly. And Sparkplug realized that the mask that had formerly obscured half of Optimus's face was sitting on the metal bench next to him. Without his mask, the robot looked more gentle, but less noble and somehow much, much younger. Optimus Prime's brilliant blue eyes revealed a downcast expression that was almost haunted. The human man turned away. He had obviously interrupted the robot in an emotional moment, although that seemed a strange thing to think. For all he knew, this was Optimus's favorite place to recharge his circuits. Did Autobots even understand privacy? Well, if not, then why was he here?

"Mr. Witwicky?" the Autobot Commander asked gravely. "Is something wrong?"

'_Should I be asking you the same question?_' Sparkplug wondered to himself. "Er, no, Optimus Prime. I was just…uh…exploring."

"I see," Optimus replied. "Is this something most humans do?"

Sparkplug tried to think of an answer that was truthful without making him look too bad. Yes, most humans were curious and would probably explore a new place. But he doubted many other humans would immediately go and snoop around in the home base of an unknown alien species, even a fairly friendly one. He realized that he should have asked for a tour, or some help to find a place to relax. "Uh…" his mouth was as lost as the rest of him. "I'm not sure."

Optimus regarded him evenly for a moment. His face was drawn into a half-sad smile as he looked down again at his hands. "Neither am I, Mr. Witwicky."

"Sparkplug," the man said, "call me Sparkplug." This figure in the dark was a very different Optimus Prime than the confident commander who had saved him from the water and the fire. Was he back here sulking? His brief experience with the Decepticons showed that the robots were capable of spite and anger. Perhaps they could also mope.

The wistful look deepened for a moment, but the robot continued without looking up. "Sparkplug. How remarkably suitable. Almost an Autobot name."

Sparkplug hadn't thought about it before, but he was right. He hadn't been introduced to all the troops yet, but he had heard them using their nicknames. He already he knew that "Ratchet" was the medic, and "Wheeljack" was his assistant. Optimus Prime's lieutenants were "Jazz" and "Prowl" and a 'bot called "Ironhide" seemed to be in charge of security, for he had taken a long suspicious look at the humans as they were being carried away from the site of the battle. If that Ironhide character found him here bothering his boss, he might decide that the humans were too much trouble to keep around. Sparkplug decided he had better cut things short and get back to the Command Room.

"Optimus Prime, I'm sorry to have bothered you. I'll go now," Sparkplug offered, turning.

"No, please stay," the Autobot's mobile, unmasked face was remarkably expressive. The soft smile had been replaced by an expression of anxious pleading. "I could use some company. I have been here too long alone with my own thoughts."

Sparkplug turned again. He thought of Spike. The boy could be surprisingly thoughtful and sensitive. How would he approach a melancholy robot?

"So, uh," he began. "What brings you here?" Ugh, what a clunker of a line.

The Autobot didn't seem to notice his inelegant phrasing. "I came here to think about my hands. What they have done," he said softly. "And what their actions mean."

"Your hands?" Sparkplug also looked at the appendages.

"Yes, my hands. Like all of my parts, they are a gift from Primus. They are full of power." He flexed the massive fingers with a sound of chiming metal. "They were given to me so that I may always do good."

Sparkplug looked down at his own callused and scarred hands. Could he say the same? His hands brought him his living, cared for his son, and had found their way into and out of a few fights in their time. They kept him alive and he guessed that was more or less "good". But that didn't seem to be what the robot meant.

"Did you know you're the first organic species I've met with the same number of fingers as we have?" Optimus Prime said abruptly.

"What?" Sparkplug was thrown by the sudden change of subject.

"Indeed. And one of the few bipedal species as well. Most organics are built on a horizontal plane, not a vertical one, as we are." He flashed a comradely smile at the human as he drew an up-and-down line in the air. "I feel a strange kinship to you humans, even though we have only known of one another for a few astroseconds. And you and your planet have given my hands a chance to do something they have not done in more vorns than I care to count."

"What's that?" Sparkplug asked automatically.

"Save a life." Prime said, with a happy little laugh. Then he sobered. "They are much more used to killing. In fact, the last thing I did before I was reawakened yesterday was to fly the Ark into the side of this mountain. My last thought before I blacked out was that I had killed us all."

"But you didn't, and it was an accident, anyway," the man protested. He had gotten the basics of the story from Jazz while they were in transit back to the Ark.

"Perhaps," the Autobot said. "All I know is that I have long wanted to have the chance to make amends, to erase the mistakes and failings of my hands." He looked down again and clenched his fists.

"For eons all I have done is fight Decepticons, watch the life of my planet slip through my fingers, and hold my own people while they faded away from me. And I was not expecting today to be much different. But then I saw you; you tiny, innocent, fierce organics struggling against the water and I realized that my hands had been given a new function." Slowly the huge blue fists began to uncurl until they rested, cupped gently open, on his thighs.

"I was able to protect you from danger and preserve your lives. And your living world is already recovering from whatever damage the Decepticons inflicted. Even though they escaped us today, I believe we can stop the Decepticons here. I believe your people and your world can redeem us. And I believe that the bounty of the Earth can help us save Cybertron. And I hope that it all can be accomplished by the work of these hands." He crouched down and held out his hand to the man.

Sparkplug, feeling the moment, wordlessly placed his hands on top of the offered palm.

"I have been re-forged, Sparkplug. My hands saved two lives today." Optimus Prime looked with shining eyes at the human near his feet as he reattached his battle mask, hiding the wide smile that graced his features.

"Actually, Prime, I think you saved three," the human said, smiling back.


End file.
